Nightmares and Hooker Boots
by Fluffy-CSI
Summary: Second chapter added. What if Bobby and Alex had met once before in the course of their work? While Alex is still in Vice, she has a run in with a serial killer...and the man chasing him. BA partnership, mostly. Oneshot.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: The opening two sentences are taken directly from something I read in People magazine, by a man whose boyfriend was killed in the tsunami last year. When I came across them, I dropped the magazine and ran for some notepaper because the words were just so totally perfect for a story. So here's the story I built around it. Could be considered AU, but I'd say it's more like just speculation.

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I never had nightmares. My base-level state of being was a nightmare; bad dreams were unnecessary. When you spend your childhood with a father who's alternately abusive and absent, a profligate brother, and a mother who you can't protect from herself, you're a little too busy dealing with reality to have time to worry about anything else, like the monster under the bed. When you're nineteen years old and huddled on a hard pallet in some foreign country, waiting for the next yell from your sergeant just so you can hear something in a language you know, you don't really have enough energy to dream about showing up to class naked.

By the time, years later, when I reached a point in my life where I could have allowed myself the luxury of nightmares, it was too late. My subconscious seemed to have forgotten how to have them, and I'd become so inured to the atrocities humans can carry out against other humans that even when I saw a particularly horrific case, one that made my gut twist and my eyes narrow, I could only look at it in clinical terms.

My partners would turn green, or get tears in their eyes, or even cut and run, and I'd be left standing there, looking calmly at a flayed human body, a child with every bone in his face broken by fists, a prostitute who had once been reasonably pretty but now lacked any features at all other than the broken bottle she'd been raped with. And I'd just look at it - catalogue every detail, make notes, report back to my CO. Get a pat on the back, maybe, or just a wary look. Either way, I'd done my job. And then I'd go home and try to sleep and end up wishing that I could dream the images instead of relive them consciously, if they insisted on staying in my head. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night, my heart beating a little too fast, with the feeling that there had been some night terror about to come, if I had only remained asleep, but instead, my now-conscious mind would begin to pore through the images of the day.

That all began to change one day almost ten years ago. I was doing a short stint in homicide then - short, because I was eventually declared to be "too unconventional" for the unit, big surprise there - and my partner and I were trying to catch up to a budding serial killer who preferred to prey on prostitutes.

This was the guy who used bottles on his victims, and some of the scenes were so appalling that I can still picture them today when I close my eyes. Young women, none of them over thirty, in clothes that had once been just revealing but were now in tatters from the slashes of their attacker's knife. Blood, pooled around them, sometimes looking like a bright red snow angel from their violent death throes. I would look from their faces, crushed inward under the heel of something like a boot, to their groins, already knowing what I was going to see: blood and mutilation, the jagged edges of a glass bottle sometimes visible through tears in the skin of the abdomen.

There had been four of them killed by the night things began to center around her. I was on the street, doing my crack-addicted-bum routine for the third night in a row, hoping to catch the guy in the act. Our attempts at geographic profiling, crude as they were back then, had told us that the area just outside of Times Square would be prime hunting ground for our man, and so I was crouched against an alley wall near Forty-second and Ninth with a watch cap pulled low over my face when I saw her coming.

Black leather boots with heels at least four inches high and a confident walk couldn't disguise the fact that the woman approaching me was just a wisp of a thing. Maybe twenty years old, I judged. Thin enough that it was safe to assume I'd see needle marks on her arms when she passed me. But her face was set, I saw as she moved closer, and her eyes were startlingly clear for a junkie. She was walking with purpose, as if she had somewhere to be, but there was still the suggestive sway in her step that marked an experienced working girl.

And even though all our victims had been of average-to-tall height, I knew that this woman was a target our killer would jump on. I had been operating on the theory that he sought out women who were powerful, but in a powerless profession, so that he could dominate them fairly easily. Women who were strong, whether physically and mentally, I'd decided, presented some sort of challenge to him - a challenge that he relished. And this woman, this tiny thing who was nearly on top of my alley now, had that quality in spades. Hell, even I would feel a little intimidated by her if I gave myself the chance.

_Where are you, you son of a bitch? _I thought. _There's your prey, staked out as easy as you please. Now come and get her so I can get you._

She passed my alley without even noticing me in the shadows. I knew - I was _sure _- that if our guy was out tonight, this was the woman he'd take. And so I followed her, using the shambling stride of a guy who was a little too coked up to be fully mobile. I didn't think she noticed me, and when I saw another man approaching, I eased back into the shadows again to listen.

"Hey sweetheart. Need a lift somewhere?"

"No thanks." Her voice, too, was stronger than her looks suggested, and I allowed myself a small smile, wondering how she would handle the unwanted john. "I'm done for the night."

"Aw, come on," the man whined.

I tried to see through the darkness to get a look at him, but all I could discern was that he wasn't much taller than her in her boots - which would mean he was maybe 5'6" or 5'7" - but he was built like a tank. Not a good combination, when it came to men's egos; this guy could definitely be harboring a grudge against the type of woman who'd turn him down. I shuffled another step closer and dropped my hand to my side, making sure my gun was where I needed it to be.

"I'll be quick," the man was saying when I turned my attention back to their conversation. "How much you want?"

"More than you can afford," the woman muttered under her breath. I don't know if he heard it, but I certainly did, and I found myself beginning to cheer her on, at least when I wasn't plotting the best way to take the guy down without hurting her. Switching back to a regular tone of voice, the woman said, "Listen, honey, you walk a block over and I'm sure there's gonna be a hundred girls interested in that deal. But me, I'm not, so be a good little boy and move along."

Mistake! Warning bells began going off in my head. If this was my guy, she'd just given him enough to trigger the rage I knew he felt when he attacked his victims. I tensed.

So did he. I still couldn't make out his features, but I could see the movement of his facial muscles as his expression changed from what I imagined had been an attempt at charm to what I knew would be a furious snarl. He reached for the woman, but she nimbly skipped back, pulling her arm out of his reach.

"I told you to get lost, buddy. So do it, before I decide to _make _you get lost."

"You fuckin' bitch!" His hand shot out again, and this time when she braced for the expected assault on her arm, he caught her by the neck instead. "I don't think you're gettin' my point," he growled, using his hand on her throat to back her up toward the alley I had been occupying until a few seconds ago.

This was him. My heart began to beat more slowly as I slipped into my focused attack mode, but through the unnatural calm I had long been used to, I felt a prickling of fear. I couldn't take the guy until he'd done something that would link him with our victims or the manners of their deaths, and that meant that the diminutive hooker I'd been watching was going to have to take a hit. God, sometimes I hated the legal system. All I had to do was put one bullet between his eyes, and she, along with every other prostitute in the vicinity, would be safe, at least from the fate he promised . . . but to do that would be to blow my case, as well as probably my job.

So I continued to wait, poised to strike at the first sign of real violence.

Her hand came up to grip his wrist and give it a sharp twist. "I don't think you heard _me_," she said, watching the man stumble back a step. "Now fuck off."

_Good for her_, I mused. _Too bad she doesn't know she's in too deep. Come on, lady, just set him off and then get the hell out of here!_

He lunged, hitting her with the full force of his body and knocking her a good three feet back into the alley. I heard a thud as she hit the ground, then the immediate sound of stiletto heels scrabbling for purchase on gravel. By the time she got her feet under her, he was approaching with his hands curved into claws of rage. I followed a few feet behind. His heart was probably pounding in his ears right now; he wasn't likely to hear my light footfalls.

"I don't like you, sweetheart," he told her in a deceptively calm voice. I heard the _snick _of a switchblade opening and the answering gasp from her as she began to perceive the real danger she was in. "I think maybe I need to teach you a lesson or two."

"You touch me and I'll fucking kill you," she spat. Her booted foot came up in a fairly good roundhouse kick, one that I was impressed she could manage without losing her balance, and for a second I thought she was going to lay him out for me.

He recovered from his surprise quickly, though, and by the time her foot would have made contact with his torso, his hands were up to block it. He grabbed her ankle and twisted, and though she howled in pain, her eyes stayed open and she managed to stay on her feet - or, rather, on her foot.

Then the blade came up and her eyes flicked to the side, searching for an escape route. What she found was me, frozen less than two feet behind the man and watching her intently, and it took her less than a second to see me for what I was and fit me into the puzzle. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked at me, the best attempt at an acknowledgement she could give without alerting the man who was busy slashing at her boot, and I nodded back.

I thanked god for those boots as I took my opportunity and moved. They were going to provide her legs with enough protection to keep them intact in the next few seconds while I subdued him.

I hit him hard, as I'd intended, and we both went down. The knife skittered out of his hand, and without needing to be told, the girl snatched it up and moved out of the path of our flailing limbs.

He was big, but I was bigger, and I was accustomed to fighting people much stronger than the prostitutes he was used to fighting. Within seconds, I had his face pressed into the ground, which was turning red with blood from his nose. _Good_, I thought. _Let the blood be his this time instead of some innocent woman's_.

With one knee on his back to hold him down, I reached for the cuffs at the back of my belt. They were plucked away a second before my hand got to them, and I almost panicked for a second before I realized that the hooker was on her knees, busily cuffing the guy as if she did it every day. She delivered the _coup de grace_, a boot to the guy's balls, then moved back, still on her knees, and just looked at me.

I stood up slowly, making sure that he was too busy sobbing in pain to worry about getting up, then offered a hand to the kneeling woman. "You ok?"

She took my hand and allowed me to pull her up, but kept her weight on one foot. "Broken ankle," she told me, sounding more annoyed than in pain. "I assume you have team out here? Or are you a vigilante?"

She definitely didn't talk like any hooker I'd ever met. "They're probably shitting themselves right now realizing that it went down before they could move in. They'll be here in a few seconds." I paused, looking down at her, and noticed the trembling hands she was trying to hide. "Can you walk?" I asked her.

"I can manage," she said shortly, bending down to unzip the boot on her injured foot and unintentionally exposing most of her rear end to me.

I quickly looked away, focusing on digging a card out of my pocket. "Here," I said, holding it out to her when she straightened back up. "It's probably better if you get out of here before they show up. Get the ankle looked at, and call me at the number on the card if you need help paying for it."

She took the card automatically, but then just stared at me. "You want me to get out of here?" she eventually repeated skeptically. "Why?"

I glanced over my shoulder, making sure no one was upon us yet, then looked back at her. "Because the last thing you need right now is to spend the night in lock-up for hooking. So go."

She continued to look at me for a long moment, then abruptly dropped to the ground and started laughing. I could hear hysteria edging into the laughter, but she sounded perfectly rational when she looked up at me a second later and said matter-of-factly, "If I go, your case is fucked."

She was right, I knew, but somehow I still wanted to protect her from the events of the night. "I'll deal with it."

She started laughing again, but this time there were tears mixed in. She reached under her skirt, making me back up a step, but she just pulled a leather wallet that was almost exactly like my own badge case out from the top of her stocking. Not looking up at me, she held it out. "You don't need to worry about me."

I took it, opening it to find exactly what I should have expected to find all along: the woman was a cop. I should have known it the second I saw her remain calm with a hand around her throat. If not then, surely I should have realized it when she'd delivered that well-practiced kick. Unsure how to act now, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Where the hell's your backup?"

"Probably all in bed by now," she said, wiping her eyes on one fishnet-covered wrist. "We were done; I was walking home."

I gaped at her, taking in the leather miniskirt and midriff-baring top that I'd hardly registered earlier. "You were walking home dressed like that? Are you fucking nuts?"

"I figured it was only a few blocks and I'd be ok. Famous last words, huh?" she said as thought she expected me to agree with how much of an idiot she was.

"Get up," I told her instead, offering a hand for the second time that night. "Come on, I'll help you stand."

She remained kneeling for a second, looking down at her hands, then swallowed and looked up at me. "Thank you," she said quietly as she accepted my help and stood. "For all of this, I mean. Not just the hand."

I shook my head. "I wish I had gotten to you before he hurt you."

"You couldn't move until he did. I understand that, you know," she said, giving me a tentative smile. "And you could have waited even longer than you did - but you didn't. So, thank you."

"Yo!" a voice called from the end of the alley. "Goren! What the hell, man?"

"Looks like the cavalry have arrived," she said softly.

"Guess so," I agreed. Looking up at my partner, who appeared to be more pissed than anything else, I waved a hand toward the groaning man on the ground. "There you go, Greer. Knock yourself out. Or him. Whatever." Returning my eyes to the girl - no, the _woman_, I corrected myself - I said, "We should get you to a hospital."

She nodded slightly. "I know. I'll call my husband; he's still on duty. Nice big flashing lights to get me to the ER in a hurry," she said with a smile.

She had a husband? Why was I surprised by that? More to the point, why did I feel like I'd had the wind taken out of my sails? "Sure," I said absently. "Of course. Let me hook you up with the radio van." I supported her awkward hop to the van and turned her over to the task force members there, then caught the first ride back to my precinct that I could find, thinking the whole time, _She has a husband?_

I had a nightmare that night. In it, he slashed her face instead of her boot and she fell to the ground as she looked at me accusingly. It wasn't until I'd stumbled to the bathroom and thrown up that I registered the fact that it had been a dream, not reality. It wasn't until even later - sometime the next morning - when it struck me that I'd had an actual nightmare. And all because of one tiny hooker who wasn't a hooker but almost got killed anyway? I'd seen worse things; why was it her who broke through to my dreams?

I never found out her name in the course of the case, since there was no trial for her to testify at, and I didn't bother trying to find it out on my own because, after all, she was married and what would I say to her?

Still, I had the dreams every now and then for years afterward, even after the serial killer had long ago been locked away from her and the rest of the world. There was never anyone else who worked their way into my unconscious the way she did, even though I saw plenty of worse things in the course of my work in the next ten years. I even lost one partner to a bank robber's bullet, and he still didn't haunt me like she did.

I knew she was still alive somewhere, but I didn't think our paths would ever cross again except in my sleep.

That'll teach me, huh?

I entered the Major Case squad room with trepidation; officially I'd been "promoted" out of Narcotics, but the truth was more like I'd been bumped out because I was considered incorrigible. I knew my new partner's name, but other than the fact that she was female and an excellent marksman, that was all I knew - her personnel file had been remarkably impersonal.

So I was surprised that first morning to find that my new desk wasn't empty; there was one thing sitting on top of it: a business card with my name on it, battered and torn, looking like it had been carried for years. Puzzled, I picked it up and examined it. The front held nothing but the embossed information, but the back had two words scrawled across it in a feminine hand: "Thank you."

I shouldn't have been able to make the connection with so little evidence, but I did. I dropped into my chair, still holding the card, and looked around the room for her.

Unconsciously, I was looking for a waif in a miniskirt, which probably explains why I didn't see her until she was almost on top of me. "Hi," she said quietly, depositing a cup of coffee on my desk. "I wasn't sure what you wanted in it, but . . ."

And once again, after getting a revelation about her, I blurted out the first thing I could think of: "You look different in pants."

A surprised laugh escaped her as she took her seat across from me, giving me a genuine smile. "Yeah, that's what they all say. My god," she added, shaking her head, "that we'd end up partnered after all these years . . ."

"Well, I already know you're tougher than my last three partners," I told her without thinking, "and smarter than the last five."

She raised her eyebrows. "You already know all that, just from seeing me get my ankle broken?"

My first impulse was to cringe, because the real answer was that I knew it from reliving the scene in my dreams over and over, but I managed to control myself and after a second, found a suitable answer. "No, I know it from seeing you get your ankle broken and still cuff a guy, then kick him in the balls with your bad leg."

She blinked. "Oh. Well, in that case . . . I think we'll get along fine."

I have nightmares often now, almost always about her. They wake me up out of a sound sleep, and there are still some that make me stumble to the bathroom to vomit afterward, but I would never wish them away. They're how I know that my real life _isn't _a nightmare anymore. And that's because of her.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Ok, I lied. The first chapter was supposed to be a oneshot, but then I got to wondering about what Alex's POV would be. So that's what this chapter is - and this time, it really is the end of the story :)

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I suppose maybe I should be glad they happened on the same night. Two life-changing traumas for the price of one; it was certainly more efficient that way. I only had to cry the tears once, half for me and half for him. But still, there's life-changing and then there's _life-changing_, and though it feels horribly disloyal to think it, I've come to realize that it was probably the first trauma of the night that had a bigger impact on me.

It was the end of another night of trolling the streets. We'd grabbed a fair number of would-be johns, but I'd had to cover more ground than usual - and in new boots - and I was dog tired. My partner, a big guy named Jenkins who trusted me almost unquestioningly, told me in no uncertain terms that I looked ready to fall asleep on my feet. "Go home, Eames," he told me in his gruff voice. "We'll book 'em for you - hey, you should see if you can beat Mike home for once!"

I'd thought about it for a whole three seconds before taking him up on his offer. Home was only a few blocks away, and I couldn't wait to get the boots off. By not going back to the precinct with the guys, I'd have the boots off an hour earlier than I usually would. Hell, I didn't need to be told twice. I accepted his offer with a smile and watched with as he and the rest of the team piled into the two vans we'd come in.

I don't think it really occurred to either of us that I might not be safe walking home; after all, I was the one who regularly kicked Jenkins's ass when we sparred. I was well-trained and I knew how to fight, and besides, the area I was in wasn't the most dangerous in the city. So I just waved the guys off and turned toward home without a second thought.

I was walking south on Ninth when I became conscious of the bum in the alley off to my right. He was big, I could tell even though he was crouched down, but he looked harmless enough - twitching like he had too bad a case of the DTs to worry about a stray hooker - and so when he made no move toward me, I just mentally catalogued him and kept moving.

Half a block later, I decided that there was definitely someone following me. I hadn't been able to catch a glimpse of the guy, but I heard his footsteps as he tried to match them to the rhythm of mine. I was about to whirl around and catch him in the act when I was distracted by a short guy waddling toward me from across the street. "Hey, sweetheart," he said in that disgustingly slick voice that's typical of the type of guy who uses prostitutes. The kind of voice where you can almost hear him thinking, _Here's a girl who can't say no_. "Need a lift somewhere?" he added, although he was obviously on foot and without a car.

I tried not to wrinkle my nose in disgust as I said calmly, "No thanks." _Get lost, creep. Do I look like I'm interested? "_I'm done for the night," I told him, keeping in my hooker persona without really needing to think about it.

"Aw, come on," he whined, moving a step closer to me. "You look like you could use some company.

I mentally patted myself on the back for buying these boots as I stood my ground, the same height as him, and looked him dead in the eye. "Not tonight, sugar."

"I'll be quick," he countered, starting to sound pathetic now. "How much you want?"

A guy who said that was never good news. Usually it meant they didn't intend to pay at all. Turning my face away from him as if searching the street, I rolled my eyes and muttered, "More than you can afford." I thought I spotted a human-shaped shadow near the alley, but for now, I just stored that away in my mind as I tried to think of the best way to get my current admirer off my back. "Listen, honey," I told him straightforwardly, "you walk a block over and I'm sure there's gonna be a hundred girls interested in that deal. But me, I'm not, so be a good little boy and move along."

His face changed then, into the kind of sneer that I associated with the jerkiest of johns, the kind who'd try to manhandle you, and I was ready for him when he reached out and tried to grab my arm. "I told you to get lost, buddy," I snapped as I moved out of reach. "So do it, before I decide to _make _you get lost." I was tempted - very tempted - to skip the warning and just give him a fist to the temple so I could move on toward home, but that wasn't good business, even for a hooker who wasn't really in business at all.

As I was deciding not to kick the shit out of him, though, the guy had apparently been gathering his courage, because when I returned my full attention to him, he lurched forward, seeming to reach for my left arm. I jerked the arm back again, preparing to teach him a hell of a lesson, but he caught me by surprise and his other hand shot out, grabbing me by the throat.

_Oh, fuck. Jenkins, why did I send you back? _I thought as the guy tried to push me toward the alley. I was a good fighter - better than a lot of the men I worked with - but there were some things I couldn't totally compensate for, and brute strength and large hands on an irrational man were two of them.

"You fuckin' bitch!" he growled as his hand tightened slightly. "I don't think you're gettin' my point." He forced me back another step toward the alley, and I knew that I had to make some kind of move to keep him from getting me into the dark area where no one could see us.

Catching him unawares, I reached up and twisted his wrist, not hard enough to break it, but enough to make him yelp and step back. "I don't think you heard _me_," I retorted, taking the opportunity to regroup. "Now fuck off." I let out a breath of relief as his face seemed to crumple, and I was preparing to give him one last scare before moving on when his body slammed into mine, launching me into the air and back into the alley.

I landed hard on my butt, but even so, I would have been back on my feet by the time he got to me if I hadn't been wearing those damn boots. Stiletto heels are not great for helping a girl get a grip on the ground, and the precious few seconds I had to recover were eaten up by trying to get the heels to dig into the loose gravel. By the time I raised my head to check out my position, he was almost on top of me, hands out in front of him as if he were going to either scratch me or throttle me.

I wasn't too keen on either idea, but before I could launch a counterattack, he brandished what was either a switchblade or a folding comb - and somehow I doubted he was about to do his hair. "I don't like you, sweetheart, " he said in a low voice that alarmed me more than all his growls and posturings put together. The knife blade flicked open, confirming my fears, and he added as he moved closer, "I think maybe I need to teach you a lesson or two."

_Like hell you will_, I thought as I shifted my weight and prepared to move. "You touch me and I'll fucking kill you," I informed the guy a split second before I launched the best kick I could manage in my heeled boots. And for a moment, I thought it was going to work. He looked shocked by the attack, but he recovered faster than had any right to. By the time my foot got to his chest, he had his hands ready to grab it, and as he twisted, I could feel the _snap _in my ankle as a bone gave way. I couldn't hold in the scream of pain, but there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that I was letting the guy take me off my feet.

I gritted my teeth and held myself stiff, even as he continued to hold my ankle and grin dangerously at me. Then the knife came back into view, and I sucked in a breath as it hit me that this guy wasn't just a violent john - no, he wanted to _hurt _me. The pleasurable anticipation was clear in his eyes, and I looked away, searching the shadows desperately for some way out.

And then I saw the bum, the same one I'd passed earlier, standing slightly behind my attacker. He wasn't twitching anymore, and his eyes, instead of being vacant, were focused on me. No matter how he was dressed, I realized, this was not some homeless junkie. The guy knew what was going on, and he was just waiting to jump into the fray. As my eyes met his, I tried to communicate that I recognized him as a friend without alerting the man with the knife, which was dangerously close to cutting through my boot and into my flesh. The bum must have gotten the message, because he nodded tightly.

A second later, he started to move, and I braced myself as best I could so I didn't go down with the two of them. I leapt back, landed with part of my weight on my bad ankle, and felt it give way beneath me, but I didn't have time to worry about being in pain right now. The guy's knife had gone flying, and I needed to take it out of the equation. So I stood again, thanking the stars for the magic of adrenaline, and grabbed the weapon, not closing the blade as I clutched it and watched the men fight.

It wasn't much of a fight, when I look back at it. The bum was obviously stronger and a better fighter, and as I watched him smash the guy's face into the ground, I fought the urge to cheer.

The guy was still thrashing when the bum jammed a knee into his back, though, and I decided I'd much rather have him keep both hands on the struggling criminal than not, so without really thinking about how it would seem to him, I grabbed the handcuffs that were visible under the tail of his shirt and dropped to my knees, taking pleasure in snapping the cuffs on too tightly.

I wasn't satisfied by that, though, and so I drew back a foot and slammed it into his crotch, not realizing until I made contact that I had used my bad foot. I winced and struggled not to let out a yelp or clutch my ankle, and managed after a second to conquer both urges.

We both just sat there for a second, waiting to see what the guy would do, but he seemed too concerned about his balls - which I sincerely hoped I'd knocked up to his throat - to realize he was in custody. The bum glanced at me and smiled slightly, then stood up and offered me a hand.

I accepted the help, being careful to keep my weight only on my good ankle. He must have noticed, because he looked down at me and said gently, "You ok?"

I grunted an assent, then looked down at my leg, where against the thin leather of the boot, I could see the ankle starting to swell. "Broken ankle," I told him, angry at myself for getting into trouble, now that I had the time to be angry. Then I looked back up at the bum, who was looking even less bum-like than he had been a minute ago. Putting my hands behind my back to hide their trembling, I said, "I assume you have a team out here? Or are you a vigilante?"

He stared at me for a second, looking surprised by my question, then nodded. "They're probably shitting themselves right now realizing that it went down before they could move in. They'll be here in a few seconds." His eyes flicked to my arms, then to my face, then to my leg. "Can you walk?"

God, the last thing I needed was some hero cop trying to carry me out of here. "I can manage," I said brusquely as I bent over to unzip my boot and evaluate the swelling. Shit, it was ugly.

When I looked back up, he was holding something out to me. "Here. It's probably better if you get out of here before they show up. Get the ankle looked at, and call me at the number on the card if you need help paying for it."

I took the card from his hand and looked down at it, then back up at him. This guy was a cop - a homicide cop, no less - and he was telling me to get away from the scene? "You want me to get out of here? Why?"

He looked embarrassed by the question as he glanced over his shoulder, probably checking that we were still alone, then looked back at me. "Because the last thing you need right now is to spend the night in lock-up for hooking. So go."

I stared at him. Was this guy for real? He obviously still thought I was just a working girl, and yet he was concerned enough about me to completely disregard procedure and send me home - after offering to pay for my medical care, no less? I couldn't help it; suddenly the fear of the past few minutes crashed into the absurdity of my current situation and I dropped to my knees, laughing at a shrill pitch that I hated.

I forced myself back to reality after a few seconds and looked up at him, trying to read his face as I said, "If I go, your case is fucked."

He looked surprised that I realized such a thing, but then just nodded dismissively. "I'll take care of it."

Suddenly, I wanted to cry. The bum-who-wasn't was looking at me like he wanted to take me home, feed me, and find me a job; I was sitting on the ground with an ankle that had been broken by some kind of psycho; it was the middle of the night, and I was cold. So I ducked my head and started laughing again to hide the tears that were starting to run down my face. It took a few seconds of fumbling before I could get my badge case out of my stocking and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that he backed up, as if he were afraid I was about to pull a gun. I held the case out to him and shook my head, still not looking up because of the tears. "You don't need to worry about me."

He took the wallet from my hand and opened it. I heard him take a breath that was a little too sharp compared to his breathing from the past few minutes as he realized what he was looking at, and then he snapped, "Where the hell's your backup?"

"Probably all in bed by now," I told him as I tried to dry my tears. "We were done; I was walking home."

I could feel him staring at me, his mouth probably hanging open, as he processed what I was wearing and the fact that I was wearing it on the street without backup. "You were walking home dressed like that? Are you fucking nuts?"

I breathed a tiny laugh at his reaction. I probably would have said the same thing to me if I was in his position; it had really been criminally stupid of me to think I could walk home dressed like something out of a Madonna video without getting into trouble. "I figured it was only a few blocks and I'd be ok. Famous last words, huh?" I said quietly.

Instead of answering that question, he just held out his hand again. "Get up," he told me. "Come on, I'll help you stand."

I just looked down at my hands for a second, unable to believe I'd been so damn stupid, and that I'd only gotten out alive by the pure luck of this man being in the right place at the right time. "Thank you," I said as I reached out and took his hand for the second time. "For all of this, I mean. Not just the hand."

As I raised my eyes to look at him, I saw that he was shaking his head. "I wish I had gotten to you before he hurt you."

_I wish you had too, my friend_. I didn't say that, though, because he was obviously beating himself up about allowing another cop to be injured on his watch. And really, he'd had no choice; he couldn't arrest the guy for being rough with a prostitute who would probably have refused to press charges. He'd had to wait until the guy did something truly dangerous - and frankly, I wasn't sure if twisting a girl's ankle would be enough for me to take the chance of blowing a case if I had been him. "You couldn't move until he did. I understand that, you know," I told him gently, trying to communicate how much I really did understand. "And you could have waited even longer than you did - but you didn't. So, thank you."

He was opening his mouth to respond when a voice called out, "Yo! Goren! What the hell, man?"

He looked up at the man who had spoken; I looked up at him. So his name was Goren, huh? Not a name I knew, but definitely one I'd remember. I looked down at the card I held hand in my hand, now slightly crushed and damp from my sweaty palms. "Looks like the cavalry have arrived," I told him.

"Guess so." He waited for the other man, who looked like he was angry he hadn't been able to get in on the bust, then gestured toward my attacker, who was still face-down on the gravel. "There you go, Greer. Knock yourself out. Or him. Whatever."

I almost giggled at that, at the complete dryness of his voice, but I held it back when I realized that the partner wasn't laughing. Obviously there was tension between these two, and my rescuer didn't need me to add to it.

I was just swallowing my smile when he returned his eyes to me. "We should get you to a hospital."

God, I hated hospitals. I would need to call Michael before I went, so that someone there didn't call and scare the living daylights out of him. I nodded at the bum - no, at _Goren_, I corrected myself - and said, "I know. I'll call my husband; he's still on duty. Nice big flashing lights to get me to the ER in a hurry."

He didn't quite manage to hide the surprise on his face at that, and I realized that it hadn't occurred to him that I might be married. I wondered how old he'd thought I was - I knew I looked all of twenty, but I would have thought that after he saw my badge . . .

"Sure," he said a second later. "Of course. Let me hook you up with the radio van." Putting an arm around my waist, he helped me stumble to the van. It was only then that I realized how seriously big this guy was, and how goddamn lucky I'd been to have him nearby. I thanked him effusively when he helped me into the van, but he just smiled shyly, ducked his head, and wished me good luck.

And then he was gone, to do whatever it was homicide detectives did after a bust, and I was left alone with two uniforms in the van, both of whom were looking at me like I was some exotic relic they weren't sure what to do with. "I need to get in touch with my husband," I told them. "He's on patrol in the 1-7. Can you guys reach dispatch?"

Dispatch hadn't been able to locate Michael, and it wasn't until I had them call my own precinct that the bad news was delivered. One of the radio operators passed the phone to me and said, "Some guy named Jenkins, says he needs to talk to you."

I took the handset and said, without bothering with a greeting, "I'm fine, Jenks. You can stop worrying."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds, and then Jenkins replied, "Alex, I've been trying to get in touch with you. There's . . . bad news."

My heart dropped into my stomach, but I told myself that I was just worked up from my ordeal tonight; there was no way something would happen to both Michael and me on the same night. "What's wrong?" I asked Jenkins, wishing I could just avoid the question.

"Michael . . ." He swallowed audibly. "Alex, I'm so sorry. He . . . he's gone. He responded to a robbery and . . ."

I dropped the phone, completely unwilling to listen to or understand what I was being told. I kept thinking that statistically, it was just impossible. Someone must have gotten their signals crossed. I barely registered one of the uniforms picking up the handset and talking to my partner.

In fact, I didn't register much of anything for the remainder of that night, including Jenkins picking me up from the scene and taking me to the hospital, where he told me what had happened to Michael while a doctor set my ankle. He brought me home with him that night, and his wife spent most of the next day hovering over me, helping me process and make decisions that I didn't want to make.

I went back to work, eventually - what else could I have done? - but the night of his death and my near-death haunted me. Sometimes, when it got really overwhelming and I just couldn't stand reality any longer, I'd dig the card out of the pocket in my badge case, where I had put it that first night, and just look at the writing. It reminded me of what happened, of the fact that someone had been there to help me. It made me feel like maybe there was a plan for me, after all; maybe there was a reason I'd been kept alive.

I still had the card five years later when I got the news that I'd be getting a new partner who was transferring into Major Case. My captain sat me down in his office and told me that the man was considered an oddball, but a genius, and that he thought I was one of the few people who could hold their own with this guy.

I'd asked the name of this brilliant detective, and a minute later, returned to reality to find Deakins crouched in front of my chair, patting my cheek and looking at me wide-eyed. "Eames? Are you ok?"

I took a deep breath and swallowed. "You said . . . Robert Goren?"

"Yeah. Why, do you already know him?"

I shook my head. "No, not really. I've just . . . read his name somewhere."

When I was allowed to return to my desk, I just sat, staring blankly at the wall, for what felt like hours. I was tempted to think that it couldn't possibly be the same guy, but at the same time, I knew that it had to be.

I didn't know if he knew my name. I suspected that he didn't, since it hadn't come up in our short conversation and there had never been a trial. Did he know he was being thrown together with the woman he'd once played guardian angel to? Probably not.

And so that first day, when he was scheduled to arrive, I left the card face-up on his otherwise empty desk and made myself scarce until I saw a large body approach the desk and pick up the card. He dropped into his desk chair, staring at the back of the card where I'd written a short message, and I took a moment to just look at him. He was a few pounds heavier, maybe. There was more grey in his hair. But the eyes were the same, and the tentative smile on his face as he looked at the card was the same one he'd given me all those years ago.

I grabbed the two cups of coffee I'd just poured and headed toward my new partner.


End file.
